


Casus Belli

by Skylark



Series: HSWC 2013 [15]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Abuse, Dubcon or Noncon Moirallegiance, M/M, Mouth injury, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Self-Destructive Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-09
Updated: 2013-09-09
Packaged: 2017-12-26 03:52:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/961253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skylark/pseuds/Skylark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Jake is left alone in this state, the results are catastrophic. —Dirk♦Jake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Casus Belli

**Author's Note:**

  * For [phidari](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phidari/gifts).



> For [This prompt](http://hs-worldcup.dreamwidth.org/15805.html?thread=2502333#cmt2502333): "I'm talking full-on pacification moirallegiance here, not just "oh they're such cute best friends". Dirk and Jake actually try to be moirails. It doesn't go as planned."

You know how Jake gets sometimes. You can imagine him pacing the perimeter of his small room, fingers twisting into knots, respirations and heart rate accelerating as the walls seem to constrict around him. “Sometimes a lad’s just got—to move, you know? To run,” he says to you through your speakers. “It’s always the same posters on the walls and the same silly old bedspread, and sometimes that’s a right comfort because it feels like Grandma could come home any minute but sometimes it’s just—” His words give out. His webcam’s off but you can practically _see_ him, running his hands over the pitted surface of his skulltop, scratching restless nails across the back of his neck. “It's _dead_ ,” he bursts out. “Sometimes it seems like I'm no better than the skeletons I unearth and this place is a tomb, and—golly, that's a bit morbid even from a fellow who gets his jollies from collecting skulls. I hope you don't mind.”

“It's fine,” you tell him, screwing together the bits of chassis, fixing the wiring into place. “You could always go explore that new temple you were telling me about the other day. I'd love to get the full audio tour.”

There's a pause, and you take the moment of quiet to focus all your attention on the heated tip of your soldering gun. You haven't soldered a cold joint since you were seven and you're not about to start now. Jake deserves the best, especially for his birthday.

“Y-es,” he says. “I suppose I could. Thanks, Strider.” His voice is tight; he was always a terrible liar.

“What's up?” you ask.

“Nothing,” he says hurriedly.

“What's wrong with adventuring?”

“Nothing! You know me, I love adventure.”

“You sure do.” There's another awkward pause. You call up the robot's blueprints and squint at the inside of your shades, double-checking your work.

“You don't want to show me around?”

Jake's laugh is quick and breathless, edged with something that makes you dig your tongue against the sharp point of your left canine. “Well, seen one temple, seen them all,” he says. “It wouldn't do much to clear my head when I'm in a mood.”

 _A mood._ If Jake is left alone in this state, the results are catastrophic. Eventually he vanishes into the depths of the jungle for days, willfully out of contact, throwing himself at any sensation he can get his hands on. The more dangerous the better, as long as it makes him _feel_. You understand the impulse—the amount of stupid shit you get up to on the daily to stave off boredom could fill a couple of hard drives by this point—but you're not like Jake, you don't come home with three concussions and a sprained wrist, tonguing a tooth newly loosened by a tussle with the white-skinned horrors of the deep. You don't get yourself into _trouble_ , and even though he always cuts his way out through cleverness, luck, or both, one day he's going to get himself seriously hurt. You've run the calculations. It's just a matter of time.

When he gets like this, you've tried watching movies with him or sending him gifts; you've even tried ordering him to stay in his room. Nothing works. A week later he'll show up on your chumroll with twenty new tales of danger, saying, “Gosh, but do I ever feel better! Nothing like a good jungle stroll to clear things right up.”

You hate it. You hate closing your eyes and opening them on Derse, floating to Prospit to watch Jake sleep, knowing that in real life he's doing his best to get himself killed and you can't do a damn thing.

You affix the red shades to Brobot's face and jostle them slightly, making sure they're on tight.

\--

Two days after his thirteenth birthday, you watch as Jake jumps from his bedroom window to the pumpkin patch below. His muscles stand out in sharp relief as he launches himself from the ledge, and the easy grace of his movements makes your breath catch.

His landing is quieter than you expect, and he scans his surroundings with quick, sharp jerks of his head. His body sings with tension, his eyes wide and half-wild. Once he's determined that there's no danger in his immediate vicinity, he picks a direction and starts to run—only to be tackled from behind.

The screen gets jittery, your speakers full of the sound of fighting. “Not now, you bloody thing, I'm—!” you hear Jake shout, very close. When the video stabilizes, Jake's on his back. You're over him, holding his shoulders down, your frame bracketing his shuddering ribcage as he gasps for breath.

“You want to go a round?” Jake snarls. The dark skin on his right cheekbone is already purpling. “Sounds like a _fucking_ lark. Let's have at, then, metalman, just you and me!”

He thrashes and you let go, circling him as he gets to his feet. In an instant he's upon you, teeth bared with a fierce joy that's just this side of rage, locking his arms around your throat and trying to wrestle you to the ground. He's gorgeous, and terrifying, and you wouldn't want to face him in a fight when he's like this—not without an advantage, anyway. As it is, you're currently operating a body made of steel and wire, indefatigable, unbeatable. 

You throw him to the ground, but it doesn't stick. He comes after you again and again, skinning his knuckles on your armor plating, gasping when you headbutt his solar plexus. _“Stay down,”_ you growl at your computer, but he won't, not until in a fit of desperation you crack him across the temple and he goes limp. 

For a moment you're horrified—that's not what you intended. What if you've _hurt_ him? But his breathing is rhythmic, his bones are intact, his skin is bruised but not broken. Objectively, he's in better condition than you've seen him from some of his more extreme episodes.

You heave Jake over your shoulder. He's pliant, quiescent in your iron grip, and it makes you swallow hard as you return him to his room, brush the dirt from his hair and tuck him into his bed.

Honestly, you're doing him a favor, you tell yourself.


End file.
